


Because I Saw You, the Real You...

by teaandjumpers



Series: I Was Watching the Whole Time [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 14:31:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaandjumpers/pseuds/teaandjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can't resist Moriarty's pull, even though a part of him knows he should (can be read as a stand alone if you don't want to venture into non-con/dub-con territory of the previous installments).</p><p> <i>“Jealous?” asked John, not caring what a comment like that might cost him.</i></p><p>
  <i>“Believe me when I say that if I wanted you all to myself, there’s not a person in the world who would be able to find you.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because I Saw You, the Real You...

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Includes references to previous occurrences of non-con/dub-con.

 

 

Mr. Moriarty, he had called him at the pool. Only John Hamish Watson would slap a “mister” in front of his abductor’s name.

It was the middle name that sent Jim over. An informant at Bart’s told Jim all about John Watson and when the woman had uttered the name Hamish, Hamish, well, Jim grew hard under a minute. Of course John’s middle name would be Hamish. It was poetry, the clipped sound of John and Watson, offset by the softness of the name Hamish. It encapsulated John’s personality perfectly. And it was what made Jim decide that he would fuck John Hamish Watson, give him a good, long fuck that would make John blush when he thought of it.

The man had an unshakable stillness that Jim wanted to break. He wanted to disassemble John and put him back together in a way that made him fit into Jim’s life. John would break. Jim knew he would. Sherlock was too boring, too predictable to make John lose it, to really, really lose it. For all his genius, Sherlock was unremarkably normal, riddled with normal people’s emotions. Jim would really challenge John. He would make John think he could change him – appeal to his sense of compassion and make John believe that there was a sensitive soul beneath the manic exterior, and slowly ensnare the army doctor.

Jim would make use of John properly. Not just as a prop piece that periodically praised Jim’s intellectual prowess. He would dress John up in Ted Baker suits, single breasted, in bright and dark blues. Something that would bring out his eyes and accentuate those shoulders. He would put John on a diet and get him on a regular workout schedule. Jim had grown fond of John’s tubbiness, but he wanted the other man to be toned, for his stomach muscles to be defined and for John’s legs to be strong enough to grip Jim’s waist as he fucked him.

Jim would have him. Completely. And breaking Sherlock, that would just the icing on the cake.

 

#

 

Meet me at Beaufort Bar. Six o’clock. Jim xxxx.

John had received the message an hour ago and even though he was dressed in pressed trousers and a nice blazer, he was still telling himself that he wasn’t going.

He was sitting at the kitchen table eating a slice of toast when he got the text. Luckily, Sherlock was at Bart’s or he would have seen the all too noticeable shiver that ran down the length of John’s spine when he read it.

Things had been tense since Sherlock and John’s last encounter with the consulting criminal. Sherlock had stopped meeting John’s eyes when he spoke to him. He had also stopped asking John along to cases. They had stopped sharing things—food, jokes made at Mycroft’s expense. They had gone from being friends to being just flatmates and it left it Sherlock shaped hole in his life that John couldn’t fill no matter how many times he went out and found someone to cling to through the night.

That rush of loneliness, the one that made him pull out his gun just to remind himself of the weight of it, decided it for John. He adjusted his collar for the umpteenth time and went outside to hail a cab.

 

#

 

John had never heard of the Beaufort Bar and had to look it up on the internet. It was one of the bars in The Savoy, a hotel that John frequently passed by, but had never been inside of. The cab pulled up in front of the hotel and John took a deep breath of air as he stepped out into the crisp air.

He was really doing this. Meeting James Moriarty, a notorious criminal mastermind for – what? Drinks? Starters? Some light-hearted conversation in a posh bar? He hadn’t the slightest idea, but he drew himself up and set out for the hotel’s entrance with the sure-footed conviction that he donned in every situation.

After asking two members of the hotel staff and navigating through an endless maze of hallways, John finally found the bar.

Everything in the bar shone, from the black tables to the glittering walls to the large grand piano that sat towards the back. The bar was in a large open space with high ceilings that were painted black. The walls had small alcoves in them that were glossed with a shimmering gold that made John feel a little dizzy after staring at them for too long. The décor was stylish, sleek, with a sinister edge to it. Very befitting of Moriarty.

“Doctor Watson,” a man up front greeted him promptly. “This way.”

The man snaked around a dozen tables towards one in the middle of the bar where John spotted the back of Moriarty’s head, the man’s immaculately slicked back hair unmistakable.

When they reached the table, the man pulled out John’s chair and excused himself. Moriarty watched him leave with a look of amusement. He then turned his gaze onto John.

He was wearing a startlingly blue suit jacket over a white button-up and had on a peach colored tie with a matching pocket square. He already had a drink, something clear with cherries in it, which he was sipping from through two red straws. The drink was girly looking, not exactly what someone would peg as a criminal mastermind’s drink of choice, but that didn’t surprise John. Moriarty was the type who did what he wanted and made no apologies for it. He seemed inhumanly comfortable in his skin, lacking any of the self-consciousness that riddled most people, even Sherlock who cared a great deal more about what people thought of him than he let on.

“So glad you could make it,” said Moriarty with a slight smirk. He was lounging back in his chair, one leg resting on the knee of the other and looking very satisfied with himself.

John didn’t know where to look, the memory of Moriarty’s bare body pressed against his own suddenly rearing itself and bringing with it a sudden rush of blood to John’s groin. He tugged at the collar of his shirt and brought the menu up to cover half of his face.

“Yes, well,” said John. “I didn’t really have a choice, did I?”

“I didn’t threaten you,” said Moriarty as he reached over and pulled down the menu. “No, Johnny. You’re going to have accept the fact that you’re here because you want to be.” He placed his hand on John’s thigh, stroking the inner seam of John’s trousers.

John’s entire body turned rigid and he scrambled back, trying to push his body as far back into his chair as possible. He suddenly became very aware of the people surrounding them. It seemed like the noise level in the bar immediately dropped, but John looked around and everyone appeared to be talking with as much enthusiasm as before.

“Would you like me to have them leave,” Moriarty said. “I can.”

John didn’t doubt it. He also didn’t doubt that, if Moriarty wanted to, he could fuck John on their table and not a single person in the bar would bat an eye. The thought was titillating and John pictured himself with his back against that glossy surface and his legs wrapped around Moriarty’s waist, bucking against the other man as his moans tore through the patrons’ prattle.

John bit his bottom lip and slouched in his seat, moving his growing member closer to Moriarty’s adept fingers.

“No,” said John, a little too loudly. “Let them stay.” The gaggle of people around them, the placidity of their conversations, normalized the situation for John.

“Look,” said Moriarty, leaning in close but keeping his hand inches away from John’s prick. “We can draw this out for as long as you want…” Moriarty lightly ran his thumb across the growing bulge in John’s trousers. The touch was barely there, but it was enough to make John mewl and throw his head back in shameless need. A woman at a nearby table locked her gaze on John and jerked it back just as quickly.

“Or,” continued Moriarty, pulling away and leaving John wanting. “We can just skip to the part where I bend you over a tacky piece of hotel furniture and fuck you.”

John nodded dumbly, because, Christ, he wanted that more than anything right now.

“Book a room,” said Moriarty, dropping a credit card on the table. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

 

#

 

The name on the card was Charles Boswell. Trust Moriarty to go through the trouble of getting a card with that name for the sake of a joke.

John took the card and rented the most expensive suite available.

The room had a living space that was separate from the bedroom. It had an art deco meets Edwardian feel to it with boxy furniture placed around the space sparingly and long, heavy curtains accenting a window that was as wide and tall as the room’s wall. The first thing John did was lie out on the bed, fanning his arms out across its silk sheets. The mattress molded against John’s body, supporting him in all the right places. It was time to get a new one back home. Rent be damned. Sherlock could cover John just this once. He owed him that much.

The bathroom had a deep marble tub. It stood at the base of a window that offered a fantastic view of the London skyline. There was a generous supply of bath products arranged on the sink, including a brown pouch that held scented salts. John dipped his fingers into the pouch and wondered whether he had time to take a bath.

He decided he did. Why not enjoy himself while he was here? Maybe it would help get rid of the feeling of guilt that had settled itself deep in his gut. He turned on the tub’s faucet and let the water run as he poured a handful of the salt into the bath.

John slipped into the water and took a deep breath. He moved his hands through the liquid in lazy circles to help dissolve the bath salts and the scent of lavender slowly began to fill the air. When John woke up this morning, neck stiff from falling asleep on the sofa, John never dreamt he would end up in a posh hotel, cleansing himself with expensive bath soaps. John let the soothing sensation of the water lapping over his chest fall over him. He wanted to take himself in hand. John had been half-hard throughout his conversation with Moriarty and the temptation to touch himself, to bring himself off with strong, sweeping strokes, was great. But he resisted. Moriarty would be back soon and, well… It would be better to wait.

After a thoroughly relaxing soak, John rose out of the tub and wrapped himself up in one of the hotel’s plush robes. Moriarty walked through the door just as John finished towel-drying his hair. John briefly wondered how Moriarty knew what room he had booked, but he reminded himself, he had to keep reminding himself, that this was Moriarty. Nothing was out of his reach. Including John.

Moriarty was wearing a pair of large sunglasses and carrying a suitcase that he didn’t have before. John suddenly felt like he was in a bizarre, fifties sitcom where he was the stay-at-home wife rushing to receive her husband on his return.

It didn’t help that Moriarty greeted him with a cheerful, “Honey, I’m home.”

John pulled the tie on his robe tighter, feeling absurdly exposed even though Moriarty had already seen and claimed every inch of him. If Moriarty took notice of John’s sudden bout of demureness, he didn’t show it. He flung his sunglasses onto the larger sofa in the living space and placed his suitcase on a small table next to an armchair. He said nothing, but moved towards John until he stood in front of him in all of his GQ splendour.

He brought a hand to the belt of John’s robe and tugged. The belt came loose and Moriarty slid the cotton off John’s shoulders. John felt a light chill pass over him as his skin was bared and a sharp thrill of anticipation shot through him. Here he was. Again. Exposed and at Moriarty’s mercy. And John didn’t think he’d ever felt so alive. Every inch of him, from his balls down to the tips of his toes, was on fire.

Moriarty bit his lip and dragged his thumbs across John’s hipbones. “You never disappoint, Johnny.”

The hem of Moriarty’s suit jacket brushed against John’s thighs and John realized he’d never seen the other man completely naked. He’d seen the man’s lower half, those strong thighs and his more than adequately sized cock, but John longed to see the rest of the man—the well muscled, arms that John knew was just beneath the expensive fabric of Moriarty’s suit.

He had caught a glimpse of those arms on the security footage of Moriarty taking the crown jewels. John remembered being in awe of this man who pirouetted across the Tower’s display room as if it was his primary school’s recital stage. John also remembered the moment Moriarty picked up the fire-extinguisher with the ease of a weightlifter and how it triggered a slow burn in the pit of John’s stomach.

John was happy to note that his hands weren’t shaking as he brought them up to the lapels of Moriarty’s suit jacket. Moriarty stood still, dark eyes wide and calculating. John slid the jacket off and began undoing the buttons of Moriarty’s shirt. It was an oddly intimate gesture, one that he’d never done for a man, and John broke out in a small smile over the sheer absurdity of it. There was only one man John could’ve fathomed doing this for and at the moment he was on a case that he hadn’t bothered asking John along for.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Moriarty, grabbing John by the wrists and giving him a light push. He took on the task of undoing his shirt himself, disposing of it and his trousers and pants in six fluid movements.

And there Moriarty stood, completely bare and not looking a bit vulnerable. If anything, the man looked more menacing, his toned stomach and defined arms, the dark, unruly hair running down his stomach and massing at the dense tuft above his cock attesting to a virility that made John’s knees go weak and his mouth turn dry. John resisted the urge to run his hands up and down the curves of Moriarty’s biceps and watched the man pace backwards to settle into a generously wide armchair.

The chair had a fleur-de-lis pattern on it that immediately made John think of Sherlock, making his stomach clench in guilt.

“Thinking of something?” said Moriarty, pulling John out of his thoughts. “Or someone?” he said, his voice carrying a hint of accusation.

And that was interesting.

“Jealous?” asked John, not caring what a comment like that might cost him.

“Believe me when I say that if I wanted you all to myself, there’s not a person in the world who would be able to find you.”

The possessiveness in Moriarty’s words shot straight to John’s groin and he inched towards the other man, dropping onto his knees in front of him.

“I believe you,” said John, his voice low and breath ghosting over Moriarty’s knee. John tried very hard not to expend too much thought on how big of a gesture it was for Moriarty to offer himself to John in this way. John wasn’t delusional. He knew he would be the one getting fucked in this scenario, and that suited him just fine, better than fine actually. But for Moriarty to give John control over how the evening would proceed, it implied a shift in power that John didn’t want to study too closely at the moment.

John ran the tip of his nose up Moriarty’s thighs and latched his lips onto the hollow just beneath the man’s jutting hipbones. John sucked at the spot greedily and felt a bloom of heat coil low in his spine when Moriarty let out a contented purr. Moriarty had a musky scent that John wanted to rub all over his body. It made his mouth water and he licked his lips wanting to swallow Moriarty whole where the scent was most concentrated, but he held off on bringing his mouth to the man’s cock, which was lilting invitingly as it rose and grew.

John blew a short puff or air over Moriarty’s balls that made the man growl. He didn’t clutch at John though. He simply tightened his grip on the chair’s armrest and spread his legs wider. His eyes were almost entirely black, as big and round as a doll’s and John was struck by how absurdly young the man looked for a moment, this criminal mastermind who could bend the world to his will with a text.

John placed his hands on top of the other man’s thighs, massaging the flesh there with his thumbs. John traced small circles across Moriarty’s skin, spreading his own legs out as he did so and jutting his arse out to give the man something to look at. His hands stilled though, when they ran across a patch of skin that had raised flesh. John looked down to find a neatly arranged row of scars on the inside of Moriarty’s right thigh, each cut straight as a razor and sitting half an inch below the other. Self inflicted, thought John, not at all surprised.

John had heard stories about Sherlock’s childhood. About the bullying and the loneliness. Moriarty must have gone through a similar experience, and John wagered that Moriarty didn’t have a brother to coach him through it the way Sherlock did.

John couldn’t even begin to fathom what Moriarty’s childhood was like.

He didn’t comment on the marks, nor did he look up to gauge the man’s expression. Instead, he pushed Moriarty’s legs further apart and began to lower his mouth to the scars. Before his lips met the raised skin, Moriarty tugged John’s head up by his hair and said, “Don’t.”

Moriarty’s voice was sharp, but there was a slight tremble to it. John locked eyes with the man and lowered his lips to the skin anyway. He traced the scars with the tip of his tongue, following each line to its end and covering each one with a glossy film of saliva. This time, Moriarty did fist his hand into John’s hair, but it was to pull John closer. Moriarty bucked into John, his bottom half rising off of the chair and his back arching into it.

John made his way up Moriarty’s body, thrusting his tongue into the defined hollows of Moriarty’s abdomen. He moved upward, trailing wet, open mouthed kisses over the man’s stomach and pausing to nip at the hardened nubs of the man’s nipples. He pushed himself up off the ground and straddled Moriarty, his chest now level with the man’s lips.

Apart from the soft noises of pleasure Moriarty emitted when John was lavishing the man’s body with licks and kisses, the criminal consultant had remained quiet. That was a first for them. In their previous encounters, Moriarty took great joy in humiliating John. In tearing him down and revealing the weak points in John’s armor. But this time he just sat back and took it all in.

John leaned back, tautened his thighs and looked, really looked at James Moriarty and those dark, round eyes, the heavy set of the man’s lashes, the stubble on his chin that made him look more adult than the clean shaven look he had when John first met him at Bart’s. And then there were the lips. Those lips with their rose petal pinkness that suggested a softness that John knew wasn’t there.

He found himself desperately wanting to kiss those lips, but John didn’t know where the boundaries of tonight were and whether crossing them would yield a slap to the face or a punishment more befitting of a man who kidnapped blind, old ladies and quirked his lips into a smile at the prospect of being blown to bits by a bomb.

John was just reckless enough to find out, and he brought his head down, angling his lips towards the other man’s. Moriarty jerked his head to the side as if pulled out of a silent reverie and grabbed John’s length, squeezing it tightly.

“Know your place, Johnny,” he said, giving John’s cock a harsh tug and then letting go. The touch sent a shock wave through John, reminding him of how much he wanted to be handled by this man. He would be lying if he didn’t admit that the power thing was a huge turn on. In his heart, he was all too aware that Moriarty was evil to the bone, but the sheer competency of the man, the way he orchestrated his schemes down to every meticulous detail spoke of a tendency towards order that Sherlock was severely lacking.

Moriarty leaned over the side of the chair and opened the suitcase he had placed on the adjoining table. In it was a tube of lubricant, a bag of lollipops, and a silver, ornate looking knife, all of it bedded over a stack of files. Moriarty picked up the lubricant and scraped the sharp end of the tube over John’s chest. The sensation was pleasant, far too reminiscent of fingernails clawing at skin, and it made John wish that Moriarty would play more of an active role in tonight’s activities.

He handed the tube to John and said, “Prepare yourself.”

John couldn’t stop the soft moan that escaped his lips, nor did he want to. He wanted Moriarty to hear the want in his voice. He coated his fingers with lubricant and slipped a finger in, purposefully pushing at the muscle that had tightened during his last few weeks of celibacy. He braced one hand just above Moriarty’s shoulder and worked himself open, adding two more fingers and sinking himself down on them. He kept his eyes shut and felt his already leaking cock skirt against Moriarty’s stomach as he pressed his fingers harder against his insides.

“What’s the knife for?” asked John, because that glint of metal hadn’t escaped his thoughts, lust addled as they were.

“Decorative,” said Moriarty, his voice hoarse and deep, slipping further from that commanding tone he had back at the bar. He wrenched John’s hand away from their task and said, “Enough.”

He took John’s hand in his and held his palm face up. John thought it was an oddly intimate gesture and wondered briefly if Moriarty was going to cut his palm open with that knife, initiating some kind of blood brother ritual. But it was nothing that fanciful John realized as Moriarty poured a good amount of lube into John’s palm. He was looking up at John with a knowing smirk, one that read ‘you poor, clueless soul.’

John ran his slickened hand over Moriarty’s hard flesh none too gently. He let his nails scrape against the sensitive skin, eliciting a sharp hiss from Moriarty that made John want to impale himself onto the man’s cock right then. And John did just that, aligning Moriarty against his entrance and locking eyes with the man as his insides gave way to that demanding girth. He bore down on Moriarty until the man was buried balls deep within him.

John was breathing harshly, inhaling through his nose and giving himself a moment to adjust to the near unbearable heat and the intimate stretch. Moriarty was looking up at him, lips parted and eyes clouded. His hair was still neatly parted, thick tendrils combed over to the right and John wanted to sink his fingers into those dark strands and muss them, but John placed his hands on Moriarty’s shoulders instead, his palms sticking to the slight sheen of sweat on the man’s skin. He pushed against those shoulders, bringing his body up and letting Moriarty’s length slide out of him. Moriarty groaned into John’s stomach and raked his teeth against John’s skin.

“Jesus,” cried out John, his head flung back and eyes fixed on the dark-blue ceiling. If he wasn’t careful, he would climax soon, and he didn’t want that. Not yet. Not until Moriarty was undone.

He rubbed his hole against Moriarty’s prick, letting it sweep back and forth across his sensitive skin, and John was willing to keep doing it, having his desire build at the prospect of being filled again, but Moriarty had other plans. Moriarty grabbed his cock with one hand and pushed John down with the other, prompting John to take Moriarty in again. John set up a rhythm, riding Moriarty’s cock with the fervor of someone who hadn’t had a satisfying fuck in a long time. And that was partly true. John’s last few attempts at getting off with someone were lackluster, each potential partner failing to live up to John’s standards—a high bar that was set by Moriarty’s guiding hands, his sharp tongue, and those piercing eyes that could split John open with a look.

John reveled in the bliss, the absolute joy of being undone and wanted so badly by a person who wielded so much power. He sunk down on Moriarty’s heat again and again, sweat running down his temples and blood thrumming in his head.

The heady sensation faded a little when John felt a sharp point against his chest. He opened his eyes to see Moriarty holding the knife against him. The look in Moriarty’s eyes wasn’t playful, but glazed over as if he was in a trance. Before John could make a defensive move, Moriarty canted the blade and made a diagonal swipe with the it against John’s chest. The cut was shallow, but it stung and blood bloomed across John’s skin and began to trickle down him, warm and steady.

John was in shock. Not from the pain, rather from letting himself be at Moriarty’s mercy like that. He had half a mind to remove himself from Moriarty, to detach himself from the area that joined them, but Moriarty rocked against him, willing John to start moving again. John did just that, and it was when John dropped his weight down and Moriarty’s cock skimmed his prostate that Moriarty licked at the cut, lapping up the blood that had spread across John’s chest.

John clenched his arse cheeks, lost in the sheer hedonism of the primal act. He slowly rolled his hips, muscles gripping tightly as they could at the demanding flesh lodged between them.

Moriarty tossed the knife back into the suitcase and drew his tongue across the fresh wound. “John,” he whispered into the skin. “John, John, John.”

John’s composure broke and he threaded his fingers into Moriarty’s hair and arched his chest closer to the other man’s sinuous lips.

“Tell me about your first time,” said Moriarty. His Irish accent came out thick as he dragged out the word “time” and exaggerated the roll of his “R’s.” It made John buck into him wildly and John had to force himself to slow down as he tried to dig out that memory.

“It was when I was training for the army,” said, John, the rasp in his voice a good indicator that he was about to break. “Everyone wanted her, but she chose me. Took me behind the stands and rode me.”

“How the tables have turned,” said Moriarty, satisfaction steeped in his smug tone. “And what about with a man?”

John stilled his movements then and locked eyes with Moriarty. He was his first. John always thought it would be Sherlock. That he would be John’s first and last, but Moriarty blew that notion out of the water when he visited the flat and took what he wanted from John.

Moriarty had stilled as well and was looking up at John with wonder. Keeping his eyes fixed on John’s, Moriarty brought his hands to John’s hips, prompting John to move. John settled into a steady rhythm again, relishing the slide of Moriarty’s cock as John enveloped it again and again.

Moriarty dug his teeth into John’s neck and moaned. “If I had known. Oh, Johnny, if I had known, I would’ve brought a camera. I would’ve filmed me pushing into you. I would’ve captured that look on your face – that look – as if you’d been aching for it. Waiting your entire life for someone to pin you down and lodge their cock into that greedy hole of yours.”

That’s when John lost it, because there was an embarrassing truth behind Moriarty’s words. He lowered himself onto Moriarty with more force, their bodies making obscene noises in the all too quiet hotel room.

As the heat coursing through him centralized, John wanted to yell out a name, but even this close to the edge, he couldn’t fathom yelling out Moriarty’s name – any of his names. Moriarty felt too formal and felt too much like an invocation. Jim was too familiar and James too motherly. There was only one name John wanted to cry out, the one name that was always on the tip of his tongue and constantly scrolled through his mind in heavy, block lettering. He bit his tongue and let out a long, filthy “fuck” instead as he rode Moriarty, hard and fast, paying little heed to the screaming pain in his leg muscles and the sting of air against the cut on his chest.

He came with a cry, holding back the persistent push of the letter “S” that threatened to escape his lips. Moriarty thrust up into him, chanting John’s name over and over again until something in him cracked and he let out a sharp shriek, his cum coating John’s insides and his cock jerking within John as he rode out the last shocks of his orgasm.

Seconds passed and neither of them moved. The suite suddenly felt too big and too quiet for John’s liking. Moriarty looked up at him, eyes dark as ever and unblinking. For a moment, one filled with both panic and relief, John thought Moriarty was dead. That he had inadvertently killed the most feared man in London. But the warmth of the man’s body and the flicker of his throat muscles working said otherwise.

John gathered himself up and looked around the room at a loss. Did he leave? Did he curl up in the bed and wait for Moriarty to join him? Did he want Moriarty to join him?

Moriarty was still sitting in the chair, watching John as if he was an animal in a zoo and he was waiting for him to do something interesting. He had never felt more unnerved in Moriarty’s presence than he did in that moment. John wondered what was going through the criminal mastermind’s head. Did he not enjoy it? Did he enjoy it too much?

John decided not to care. He made for the other room, intent on taking a shower. He was covered in blood, sweat, and semen, and though he was sure Sherlock would deduce where he was within seconds of seeing him, he didn’t want the consulting detective to think he was throwing this thing with Moriarty in his face.

As soon as his hand reached out for the bathroom’s doorknob, Moriarty sprung up behind him, spinning John around and slamming him into the adjoining wall.

“No shower. No bath,” said Moriarty, his voice growing lower. “I want him to smell me on you.”

John nodded dumbly, a pang of desire shooting through him again, but manifesting as nothing other than laboured breath.

When Moriarty released him, John walked over to the bed where he had placed his folded clothes. He put each garment on slowly, his legs slightly shaky from the strain of carrying the weight of his upper body for a good twenty minutes.

Moriarty went back to his chair, still naked, and pulled out a stack of papers from his briefcase. He looked a sight, blood smeared around his mouth and that pale skin standing stark against the dark patterns of the chair. He didn’t spare John a glance, and when John was fully dressed, the credit card Moriarty had given him earlier safely tucked into his pocket, John cleared his throat as a signal of his departure.

Moriarty simply hummed in response, his eyebrows shooting up in a gesture that said, “leave already,” but John didn’t buy it. He marched over to the chair, trapping Moriarty by placing both of his hands on the armrests.

“You can’t hide from me,” said John, feeling high from the sudden swell of confidence. “Not anymore. I see you.”

He punctuated his words by giving Moriarty’s scarred thigh a squeeze. Moriarty’s mouth fell open and his leg twitched under John’s grip. Satisfied, John turned on his heel and strode towards the door as the burn of Moriarty’s gaze prickled at his neck.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick heads up-the last installment will lean more towards Sherlock/John. Feedback is always highly appreciated!


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